


dead on the line

by moichi



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:28:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27568297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moichi/pseuds/moichi
Summary: "It's evening over there, isn't it?""I think 3 am classifies as night. But sure, it's evening for me." Is Eddie imagining the beat of hesitance in his voice? He imagines where Richie might be, sitting on his couch, maybe even his bed? Maybe half-undressed, getting ready to sleep, his shirt off. Maybe half-hard in the tacky pants he wears to his shows. Eddie turns onto his back, restlessness overtaking him, making him push the covers down from his scarred chest and rest his twitching hand low over his stomach. He shoots his shot."What are you wearing?"
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 23
Kudos: 257





	dead on the line

**Author's Note:**

> well, it's scorpio season. astrology is fake and i don't believe in it, but that doesn't mean that it's not real and fun and that you shouldn't celebrate everybody's favorite scorpio, eddie kaspbrak. happy birthday, scorpios!
> 
> title is a line from "ramrod", _the_ number one bruce springsteen song about jerking off to your crush on a saturday night.

Eddie’s woken from his dreams by a call, the pleasant, glowing images gone in an instant, leaving him in a haze. Judging by the absence of light, it has to be early morning. Reflexively, he swipes his phone open without looking even though it would probably be better to sit up first, in case it’s important.

"Eddie Kaspbrak," he manages to get out, sounding impressively awake considering half his face is still pressed into his pillow, and considering he’s still mostly concerned with where the dream went and why he couldn’t follow.

A slow, overly sultry "Happy birthday, Eddie-Spaghetti" greets him, before kicking off into a husky Monroe-pastiche. It's Richie. Who else. Eddie closes his eyes again with a sigh. Richie continues singing, switching into a drawn-out gospel kind of thing, way too loud for _any_ hour, really. Eddie puts his hand inside the elastic band of his underwear and squeezes his morning wood, moans low in his throat before realizing what he's doing, and snapping his hand out as if Richie might catch him.

"What time is it?" he asks and clears his throat to cover any telltale signs of being pathetically turned on by something as stupid as a dream, which he now recalls Richie may or may not have featured in.

"6 a.m. Wanted to be first to say it." Richie’s not sounding all that alert either now that he's stopped singing; Eddie can hear the broken off sound of a suppressed yawn, although Richie must be angling it away from the phone. He hums into his pillow, chest heavy with affection, entertaining the fantasy -- both juvenile and age-old -- of Richie being his boyfriend and this being nothing out of the ordinary. If he closes his eyes he can almost imagine Richie's in the room with him, sharing the pillow, breathing by his ear.

"Couldn't you just have texted at midnight?"

"I did!"

He pulls the phone away from his ear -- squinting at the brightness of the screen -- and sees several emoji-filled notifications, not just from Richie but from others too. The wide stretch of his grin is involuntary, as he’s unable to contain the embarrassingly childish bubbling of joy. He reaches out and turns on the bedside lamp, knuckling at his eye as he adjusts to the light, making an attempt at wakefulness. It only sort of works.

"Thank you. Aren't you-- isn't it the middle of the night over there?" He's pretty sure Richie’s in L.A., on the other side of the country. He'd let him know if they were in the same time zone.

"Yeah but I had a show, just got home an hour ago." It sounds like he's moving about, before he huffs and his voice settles into a lower register, presumably sitting down. “Thanks for asking, it _was_ sold out, no big deal.”

"That's late," Eddie says, ignoring Richie’s bait, eyes now back to closed. It's Saturday, he can sleep in. Talking to Richie comes easy; he wouldn't mind every day starting like this, albeit an hour or two later.

"The traffic was ass. I think everybody is celebrating you or something cause there were _way_ too many people out partying."

"Yeah, that's probably why." He twists a bit in the sheets, pushes his legs together -- it feels good but he stops himself again, feeling guilty. "So, Big-time, did you get me a present or what."

"I'll get you whatever you want when I’m in New York next week, we can paint the town whatever color you’d like. What are you gonna do today? For your birthday?"

He yawns, big and theatrical, making sure Richie hears it. "Sleep in."

"I'm sorry, dude." Richie sounds genuinely apologetic. "This was kind of selfish huh?"

"No, no." He sighs with relief as he pushes his hips down into the mattress, his sleepiness and the low simmer of arousal making him feel more open and honest. "I'm happy you called, it means a lot. It's really sweet."

“Okay, alright, now you’re smothering me. Let me get back to jerking off and I’ll let you go back to sleep.”

Eddie knows he’s supposed to act grossed out at this part of their constant two-man production but it’s got the opposite effect, which isn’t that unusual if he’s being honest with himself. Emboldened by his own state, he says "Maybe I'm gonna jerk off first too."

One little laugh reaches him over the phone line, sounding surprised. "Oh, a quick masturbation-sesh? Got _yourself_ a package?"

Eddie laughs too, feeling his face heating up. The conversation’s safe, nothing _that_ untoward is going on, but it’s _Richie_ he's talking to; everything is exciting with Richie. "Yeah," he says, watching his hand fidgeting with the bedsheets as if it's not under his control. "Usually I don't have time before work, but it's best in the morning."

"You think so? I usually jerk off in the evening."

A flood of adrenaline hits him, brain lighting up like he’s taken a triple shot of espresso straight into his veins; registering that Richie's not backing out of the topic even though they're starting to stumble over their well-established line of platonic-heterosexual-flirting. He puts out a feeler, keeping his voice even, pulling the sheet loose with his sudden white-knuckled grip.

"It's evening over there, isn't it?"

"I think 3 am classifies as night. But sure, it's evening for me." Is Eddie imagining the beat of hesitance in his voice? He imagines where Richie might be, sitting on his couch, maybe even his bed? Maybe half-undressed, getting ready to sleep, his shirt off. Maybe half-hard in the tacky pants he wears to his shows. Eddie turns onto his back, restlessness overtaking him, making him push the covers down from his scarred chest and rest his twitching hand low over his stomach. He shoots his shot.

"What are you wearing?"

Richie’s breath stutters over the phone like he's been holding it. The answer comes quickly, "Ha, ah, just a t-shirt and boxers. I was gonna go to bed right after calling you, I've just been waiting for the clock to turn 3 so I could feel ethical about waking you up." He pauses and then adds in an imitation of Eddie like he forgot that he needs his back-up save. " _What are you wearing_ , where'd you get that old-ass script?"

Eddie licks his lips, smiling. He pushes the cover further down with his legs and looks down at the bulge in his boxer briefs. Tenses his thighs and his stomach, traces his hand lower, pushing down just above his now aching cock. "Are you in bed?"

"Yeah." Richie’s voice is quiet, instantly serious without any evasions added.

Eddie hesitates. “Is this okay?” he asks, unsure how to convey all that he wants, unsure if they’re on the same page. Maybe Richie's just joking around. It wouldn't be the first time Eddie has misinterpreted his teasing.

Before he can formulate another, better question, Richie's answering “Yes” loud and clear like Eddie’s conducting a phone poll. It makes him smile even as his dick twitches against his leg. He rubs along the bulging outline, mouth open just a sliver, wondering whether Richie has guessed at how bad he wants this, how easy he is when Richie’s involved.

"Are you hard?"

There's a sigh in his ear; he can almost feel Richie's phantom breath through the phone, further heating Eddie's red face. "Yeah, Eds." He shivers and closes his eyes, finally allowing himself to slip his hand back under the waistband, just rubbing the wet head of his cock. Rock-hard, but the remaining languidness of sleep keeps him from the edge.

"Me too. Are you touching yourself?”

“No, do you-- can I?”

“I want you to."

He bites his lip hard when he hears Richie’s enthusiastic answer, the groaned " _Fuck"_ setting him on fire, boosting his confidence. He pushes his underwear down and his dick springs up eagerly. Snaps the elastic band tight below his balls, pushing them up, too impatient and comfortable to undress all the way. He starts moving his hand over the shaft, stroking slowly in sync with Richie's breathing; imagines his broad chest heaving, whatever ugly t-shirt he’s wearing stretched tight, the way his big hand must be mirroring Eddie's. He moans and hears it echoed from Richie, presses the phone closer to his ear as if it’s able to bring them closer together.

“Remember when-- the last time I saw you,” he begins, hurrying it like a confession, all of a sudden convinced that he’s got to tell him _now_ , or it’ll stay locked up inside him forever. Richie hums, which Eddie takes as an okay for him to continue, all the while keeping up his low _ah, ah_ sounds, rhythm now a reliable constant for Eddie.

"You said-- you were joking, but you asked me to sit on your lap, and I could’ve-- Richie, if you had asked me then I would have sucked your dick in front of the whole restaurant.”

Richie practically whimpers and Eddie has to squeeze tight around the base of his cock to keep from coming way too soon, reliving his daydream from a few weeks ago but now with a soundtrack; him under the table and Richie’s thick thighs spread for him, one hand in his hair, trying to stay quiet while feeding Eddie his cock with his other.

"I wish you were here, I would-- Fuck, _that_ would be the best present I've ever gotten." He pushes his head back into the pillow, caught between a moan and a laugh at himself for being so unsubtle.

"Yeah? What would you do?" Richie’s breathless over the line, so muted Eddie can _hear_ _him_ jacking off, the sound of skin on skin. It makes him almost feel sick with hunger, a strange desire to hurt and at the same time caress crossing the wires in his brain, making him tighten his grip until it’s close to painful. The fantasy in his mind changes, quicksilver without a set shape.

"I wanna-- I've thought about this for so long, Rich." And maybe he sounds as fervid as he feels but he's too far gone to care.

"Yeah?" Not adding much to the conversation but that's fine, it means Eddie can better hear him stifling his moaning, the heavy shiver of each of his gasps. He tugs on the hair above his dick, the sting of it sweet. Conjures a new fantasy, letting it wash over him without inhibition, fueled by Richie’s earnest coaxing.

"Yeah. I want to eat you out, feel how bad you want it. And then have you sit on my dick, right here, I'd open you up and-- God I know- I know how good you'd take it."

It’s jumbled, both in his head and as it leaves his lips but Richie says, "I would, Eddie," reverently, like a vow, and Eddie has to squeeze his eyes shut, can see it so clearly, feel the heat of him, almost feel the weight of Richie sinking down on his cock as he desperately quickens the pace of his hips, fucking into his own fist, slick with precome. Tries not to breathe so raggedly into the phone; it must sound rough, he's sure it can't be very sexy.

There’s rustling coming from the phone, and Richie’s sounds halt abruptly. Eddie pauses. Watches his sweaty stomach moving up and down and pulls one of his knees up, forced out of the fantasy for a beat. A moment later Richie returns.

"Sorry, phone fell off my chest. I've got you on speaker, this is a two-hander moment, dude," he says, followed by a nervous sort of giggle.

Eddie snorts at his stupidity but the words still manage to send a thrill up his spine. He swipes a bead of precome off the slit and down under the head of his cock, shivering. His imagination’s back at work again. With a grip on the base, he weighs the heft of his dick in his hand from side to side. "You got a big dick, Rich?"

When Richie answers it’s strangled, "Yeah, just for you." Doesn't make much sense, but it's like a hit to the back of Eddie's head of greed he didn’t think himself capable of. Eddie leans back, stretching his neck out, shoulder blades widening until his upper back gives a _crack_ that startles him into a groan.

"Fuck, I want to-- " he gets out, but it’s all too fast, he’s too stupid with it, too lost in the slick sliding pressure of his hand and Richie’s face behind his eyelids to follow up with more than “ _Richie_.”

The response is a wave of held back words, seeming to cover Eddie entirely, press him into the mattress, "Fuck-- Jesus _fuck_ Eddie, I love you" and Eddie knows Richie’s coming, panting loud and uneven, and he does too, grip on the phone cramped and sweaty, repeating his keening " _Richie_ ". He keeps his mouth open so he won't grind his teeth and the resulting noise is thick and stuttered, eyes flickering open and shut in sync as his muscles clench and he finishes over his stomach and chest. For a prolonged moment the vision of Richie is so real he’s almost surprised to blink his eyes clear of the fog and find himself alone.

Still, he’s accompanied by sound, although barely. There’s his slowly steadying breath but otherwise, silence on Richie’s side. Irrationally Eddie wonders if they're playing a game now, where whoever’s first to speak loses. Eddie's body could easily go back to sleep, but his mind’s still wedged in Richie-gear.

"Hey, you still there?" he asks tentatively, managing to become anxious during the second it takes for Richie to answer.

"Of course, dude. Where would I have gone?" He doesn’t sound any different, maybe there's the slightest hint of a wheeze.

"Good, I thought--" He takes a calming breath, internally acknowledging how ridiculous he's being. Why would Richie hang up moments after they came together? He looks down at his sticky stomach, feeling extremely tired -- like he might fall asleep between one blink and the next. It’s got to be doubled for Richie. "I've gotta clean myself up."

Richie’s laugh is soft. Eddie wants -- sudden and desperate, more than anything -- to see his face. "You got slimed _too_?"

"Yes, but _ew_ , don’t say _slimed_ , that's fucking disgusting. Got it up to my fucking nipples. It's a mess," he complains, wiping at a spot high on the numb part of his scar.

"You did?" That note of sincere amusement is back in his tired voice. Eddie uh-huhs his assent, smiling. "I'd clean you off if I was there, you wouldn't even have to get up, full-service." Eddie's smile grows, and he pushes his face into his shoulder.

"Only right, it's my birthday."

"No, I'd do that every day." Eddie's face is back to flushing, he can feel that his cheek is hot against his shoulder. Unable to remember the last time this much sentiment was directed straight at him like a laser beam. Luckily, Richie isn't here with his handsome face and his sincerity, or the mere presence of him might've liquefied Eddie completely. Deflection is his only familiar way through this, but he doesn't really want to deflect.

"Do you want to, next week? When you’re in New York. You can stay here?" He doesn’t clarify, leaving it sort of muddled what exactly he's referring to, figuring whatever Richie feels up to will be enough. Feeling excitedly expectant, like a kid knocking on the door asking for Richie to come out and play.

"Do I want to clean your nipples? Yeah, duh. I’ll come stay with you."

"So it's a date." Eddie grins, big and stupid, at nothing in particular, hoping maybe the beam is strong enough for Richie to feel despite their distance.

"Eds?"

He hums to indicate that he’s still listening, wiping at his chest, a little grossed out.

"Could you-- when you've washed off the jizz-- okay, _ejaculate_ , is that word acceptable? Do you wanna stay on the phone for a while? We could fall asleep together, if you want to." Eddie’s heart beats hot in his throat. He’s never heard a better suggestion.

"Yeah, of course. Duh."

When he falls asleep this time, it’s without any dreams.


End file.
